


anthologize

by postfixrevolution



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Ambiguous Past Relationship(s), Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Minor spoilers for Shido's palace and onward, Multi, additional pairings tagged as they appear, ambiguous relationship(s), the gang deals with grief and loss: a series!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-01 04:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17860550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/pseuds/postfixrevolution
Summary: you are remembered in the simplest things and the most complex terms...a collection of moments after what happened in the engine room of shido's palace, spanning from immediately after to a few months later. grief is not something these eight ex-theives will let each other face alone.





	1. chariot | lovers

**Author's Note:**

> A combination of me exploring pairing dynamics and character studies after Akechi's death. I hope I'm able to do everyone justice (haha) :,)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ryuji and ann in the immediate aftermath.

Ryuji gets off the train a stop earlier, with her. Ann doesn’t question it, hugging her school bag closer to herself as they fall seamlessly into step with each other. The lack of discordance is nice--an unspoken promise that they’ll never stop being in sync--but the perfect, momentary silence between each step feels like too much. She bites her teeth into her bottom lip, glancing at Ryuji from the corner of her eye.

He’s looking at her, too, hazel eyes turned innocuously toward Ann as he walks with his school bag shoved onto his shoulder, fists buried in his pockets and posture somehow looking worse than usual. Ryuji looks absolutely exhausted, a sensation she can feel mirrored all the way down to her bones.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she notes, trying for something along the lines of a teasing tone, but her voice shakes and falls flat around the last words. The attempt at a smile ends up even more pathetically, lips unable to do anything but fall down at the edges. She turns away from Ryuji with downcast eyes.

True to her observation, Ryuji remains quiet, jaw tensing and relaxing in sporadic succession. There’s definitely something on his mind, dancing on the tip of his tongue behind tightly pursed lips, but Ann decides not to rush him, keeping in pace beside him. He doesn’t hesitate as they walk, and she wonders if it’s because they’ve fallen perfectly into step or if he still remembers where her house lies, branded into his mind after countless instances of wrong turns and opposite streets back in their middle school days.

It’s not worth lingering on, she eventually decides, sliding the same key into her front door and letting him walk in first. For a moment, if feels like two middle schoolers ready to spend the day poring over trading cards and convenience store snacks again, giggling and sugar-high until Ann’s nanny came back to reprimand them for not doing their homework first.

When her door clicks shut, it’s unnaturally silent. Ryuji throws his things down by the coffee table, hunching over the low surface before deciding he likes the floro better, falling down backwards against the carpet. Leaving her bag gently on top of the table, Ann wedges herself into the corner of the sofa, knees pulled up to her chest.

“Is your mom okay with you staying out so late?” she asks quietly. Hazel eyes don’t stray from staring tiredly up at her ceiling.

“She’s working overnight,” he grunts noncommittally. “The house’ll just be empty if I go.”

Ann resists the urge to voice her agreement. He must know that it’s the same for her, too, Ann’s home always eerily empty when her housekeeper leaves for the weekend. She can’t tell if he stuck around because he knows she’d be alone or if he didn’t want to be. With the way Ryuji stares despondently at the ceiling, hands white-knuckled and clenched atop his chest, she feels like it’s a mixture of both.

“Said I could sleepover at a friend’s anyway,” Ryuji elaborates, eyes sliding shut. “Probably thought it’d be Akira, but this’s fine too. He’s got... a lot going on.”

Ann hums in agreement, arms curling around her legs. Even underneath the numerous layers of her winter clothes, she feels cold. Sky-blue eyes linger on Ryuji, unable to ignore the furrow of his brows and the downward slope of his mouth.

“So do you,” she points out, watching his features twitch at her observation. He opens one eye to look at her, hazel catching on sky-blue before he sits up, looking away with a scowl. She sighs, unwinding her arms from around herself. “Don’t give me that look,” she mumbles, unable to summon any real spite to back it. She worries her bottom lip for a moment, rolling words around her mouth. Eyes set on his frowning profile, she stands. “You can’t just pretend nothing’s wrong, Ryuji.”

Ryuji clucks his tongue at that.

“Yeah, no shit,” he huffs, pulling his knees up to his chest. Ann sits down on top of the coffee table, lining the tips of her toes up with his. Ryuji curls his toes restlessly, fidgeting discontentedly in place. He stares at his socks for the longest time before lifting hazel eyes up to meet her gaze.

“And what about you, huh?” he challenges, a petulant tone to his voice. “You’re even worse at pretending than I am, Ann.” She blinks at him, his sudden shift of topic catching her off guard. Ryuji only stares at her, waiting expectantly for an answer, and the scrutiny eventually becomes too much. She crosses her arms, staring at the ground just to the left of him.

“I never said I was,” she murmurs childishly. Her fingers curl tightly into the fabric of her jacket. Ryuji is silent for a moment before she hears him blow out a heavy sigh, hefting himself back up into a sitting position.

“Did you wanna...talk about it or something?” he asks hesitantly. Ann purses her lips.

“I don’t know,” she mutters. “Did you?”

Ryuji clucks his tongue again.

“Bullshit,” he huffs. “I asked you first.” At his petulant reaction, Ann can’t help a weak laugh.

“I... I can’t stop thinking about it,” she admits quietly, unable to stifle the slight tremor of her voice. “Everything that happened. Everything we said.”

“You ‘n me both,” Ryuji grumbles. “Can’t stop wondering if I said too much to that asshole or not enough.”

“I thought it was surprisingly cool for you,” Ann hums, causing his gaze to snap back to hers. “More than special, right?” she echoes, a rueful twist to her lips. It’s a beautiful set of words, regardless of how they couldn’t slow the speed with which Akechi had fallen. For once, she can’t agree with Ryuji more. Those words will _haunt_ her.

Ryuji averts his eyes, a distraught mixture of embarrassed and upset.

“I wasn’t lying,” he grouses. “Fuckin’ typical of him to not believe me, right?” Ryuji laughs, voice strained painfully enough for Ann to wince.

With an exaggerated huff, he falls flat onto his back against her floor, arms folded over his face. Ann swears she hears him sniffles into the sleeve of his uniform, teeth digging deep into her bottom lip in an effort to keep her from crying out, as well. She doesn’t know if it’s the sight of Ryuji so shaken or the thought of Akechi that makes eyes start to burn, but the harshness with which she bites down on her lip doesn’t help the way her vision begins to blur over with tears.

“Y-yeah,” she offers shakily, punctuated with a quiet sniffle of her own. “What a d-dick,” she forces herself to laugh, hands flying up to palm away the line of tears cascading down her cheek.

Ryuji shifts at the sound of her strangled laugh, unfurling his arms and meeting her gaze with glassy hazel eyes of his own. Something about the sight of him sends her careening into sobs. Ryuji bolts up immediately after, shaking arms pulling her shaking form against his. She hasn’t screamed like this since Shiho, since Akira was a stranger that offered her a kind of comfort she hadn’t felt in years, and Ann holds onto Ryuji like a lifeline, sobs and tears smothered against the faded fabric of his tee.

For as loudly as Ann weeps, strangled whimpers barely smothered by the arms wrapped around her, Ryuji cries just as quietly, his entire frame shaking as he stains Ann’s shoulder with tears. Ann’s hold around his waist tightens every time she hears him so much as sniffle, arms eventually wound so tightly that she soon feels them begin to ache.

“He really is a jerk if he made even _you_ cry this much,” she sniffles, impossibly muffled against the fabric of his shirt. Somehow, Ryuji understands her, unwinding an arm from around her to wipe at his nose.

“S-says you,” he argues weakly, resting his chin on her shoulder. He sniffles again, wiping away at the tears that still stick to the space around his eyes. “You were cryin’ just as much,” he accuses, but there’s no real heat behind it. Ann lets herself relax as he does, loosening her hold on Ryuji to palm away the wetness of her eyes in lieu or smearing it against Ryuji’s shirt any longer.

“I was thinking about what you said,” she murmurs. “I think you were right.”

“Too bad Akechi didn’t,” he sighs. “That guy had every chance to, even from the very beginning. If he just effin’ agreed when you said he was kinda the same as us, way back when he first joined, maybe we could’ve worked together instead of falling apart.”

Ann hums in agreement, leaning back in an attempt to face him. Ryuji’s arms remain stubbornly wrapped around her in response, refusing to remove his chin from her shoulder. With a fondly exasperated sigh, she acquiesces, winding her arms lazily around his back once more.

“I’m surprised you remember me saying that,” she admits, mirroring his position with her chin hooked over his shoulder. “Even I kinda forgot.”

“You turned out to be pretty spot on,” Ryuji shrugs. “We really are the same, aren’t we?”

“Now that I think about it, I almost wish we weren’t,” she laughs weakly, wringing her fingers behind Ryuji’s back. “Maybe it would’ve sucked less if he wasn’t like us. Maybe Akechi wouldn’t have sacrificed himself.”

For a moment, Ryuji is silent, his hold on her tightening ever so slightly.

“Funny as it is, I don’t think I can imagine that asshole as anything different,” Ryuji laughs, but it sounds more like a strangled garble, another sniffle punctuating his words. “A fuckin’ idiot with no sense of self-preservation, just like the rest of us. Given that chance, we all would’ve sacrificed ourselves for our friends, huh?”

Ann nods, not trusting herself to answer right away. A palm reaches up to catch her tears before they have the chance to start falling again, but it does little to stifle that whimper that tumbles out of her throat.

“And given the chance,” she mutters smally, “we’d all want whoever that was back, too.”

Ryuji doesn't answer her, but the arms around her waist holding her even tighter is all the agreement Ann needs.


	2. magician | hermit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> morgana and futaba in the slowly settling dust

Morgana deposits himself right in front of Futaba’s door, tail twitching restlessly as he gazes up at the immense height of it. It brings back memories of their time spent trying to worm their way into her Palace and her heart, and the thought makes him smile. He brings a paw up to the surface, rapping against it as forcefully as he can. The sound isn’t as loud as he would have wanted, but what can you do? He hopes Futaba can hear him.

Something falls to the ground with a muffled thump, too light to be Futaba, but concerning nonetheless. Morgana knocks again, more insistently.

“Go away!” Futaba grumbles through the wooden surface, sounding muffled and faraway. He can easily imagine her buried in blankets, huddled against the corner of her headboard and the wall, and the thought renews his determination. Morgana all but throws his entire weight into the next few knocks.

“Futaba, it’s me!” he tries, unable to help the impatience from leaking into his tone. “I can’t open the door, so let me in!”

He falls back onto his haunches with a growl, tired of all the incessant knocking. His ears perk up at the sound of footfalls, however, light and growing closer to the door. Morgana waits for the doorknob to turn. It doesn’t.

“...Kitty?” she asks softly. She sounds much clearer now, voice floating from the little gap underneath the door. “What are you... did Akira send you here?”

Morgana scowls, tail flicking in discontent. He had woken up earlier than usual, but in doing so, still found Akira gone. The idiot didn’t even think to leave a note, so Morgana paced nervously about the icy attic until he grew frustrated at both his partner and his inability to replace the fuel in the tiny space heater. He’s more than prepared to complain to Futaba about Akira’s gall to leave, but the thought of worrying her makes him stop. Not knowing where Akira went is sure to add to her distress, and if Morgana is being honest, the computers in Futaba’s room make it heat up immensely. He just wants warmth.

“That guy is...still asleep,” Morgana fibs, punctuating the statement with a huff. “And I don’t know why you weirdos always say how small his room is. It’s too big!” he complains.

Futaba pauses.

“E-even with Akira in it?” she asks.

“He was just sleeping, so I went here,” he replies dismissively. “Now let me in!”

In lieu of a response, the doorknob turns, allowing the door to slide open just enough for Morgana to dart in. Warmth washes over him immediately, and he purrs in content, making himself comfortable up on the plush surface of Futaba’s bed. The remnants of her blanket cocoon lie deflated in the exact corner Morgana had predicted. Futaba hops right back into it after she closes her door, but lets her head remain uncovered as she observes Morgana with tired eyes.

“He really does sleep a lot, doesn’t he?” Futaba laughs quietly. She pulls her blankets closer, lips twisted into a weak imitation of a smile. Morgana eyes her expression carefully.

“Meanwhile you look like you haven’t slept at all,” he counters, to which Futaba’s eyes widen. She throws the sheet over her head, vehemently denying his accusation from underneath the heavy fabrics.

“W-well, you’re wrong!” she intones, cocoon rustling from the force of her shout. “I slept too much, in fact! I have energy to spare!”

Thoroughly unconvinced, Morgana pads over to her blanket pile, prodding at the shapeless lump with his paw. Futaba stills for a moment and then, gingerly, pokes her head back out. Her lips are pursed tightly, amethyst eyes averted. She doesn’t say another word.

It reminds Morgana of Akira’s own despondency from the night before, all wordless nods and tired eyes. He hadn’t said a word since they left the Palace. As isolated as Morgana felt for it, he knows that there are a lot of ways to deal with the events of yesterday. That was just Akira’s and this must be Futaba’s.

“You’re sad, right?” Morgana asks, peering up at Futaba curiously. She stares at some imaginary spot on her bed sheets, fingers fiddling restlessly with the ends of her hair. She surely looks like it, he thinks.

“No,” she murmurs quietly. It surprises him.

“No?”

Futaba nods resolutely, suddenly looking up to meet his eyes.

“N-no!” she exclaims, little fingers curling up into shaking fists. “I’m s-so..! I’m angry, Morgana!” she shouts, slamming her fists against the mattress. The impact leaves Morgana bouncing gently in place. The outburst is paired with a quick sniffle, with the shaking of thin arms and white-knuckled fists.

“This is just so...so stupid!” she insists, one hand reaching up to palm forcefully away at her eye. It leaves her glasses extremely askew, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care. “Akechi, he... he didn’t...” She sniffles again, knocking her glasses off into her lap as she palms away tears again. “He d-did bad things, but no one... No one deserves what happened to him. No one deserves to _die_.”

“Futaba...”

She chokes out a sob, diving back into her blankets and throwing them over her head. Morgana can still hear her crying from underneath them, even as she tries to smother the choked sounds against the thick plush of her comforter. His tail twitches as he stands, plodding carefully closer to the shaking mess of sheets.

“You said you were angry,” Morgana begins, “but Futaba... You’re crying.”

From beneath the blankets, she makes a disgruntled sound. “S-so what?” she grouses. Morgana gazes up at her blanket cocoon with a frown before nudging at it with his head.

“You don’t only have to feel angry, you know,” Morgana chastises. The first thing that comes to mind is Akira, curled up under the blankets with his head tilted toward the lamplight spilling through the crack in his curtains and his back to everything else. Morgana curled up under a pile of Akira’s jackets on the ground, but only because he didn’t want to fight Akira for blanket rights. He looked like he needed space, anyway.

“You can be sad, too,” he murmurs, wondering if she can even hear him. “We all lost something yesterday.”

“What else is there to feel?” she huffs, plopping over onto her side. She pokes her out from her sheets, grasping around blindly for her glasses. With a gentle cluck of his tongue, Morgana picks them up gently between his teeth, depositing them right in front of her.

“I hate him, Morgana,” she whispers, palms reaching up to wipe at the fresh barrage of tears clinging to her lashes. Growing frustrated with her glasses, she rips them off, tossing them somewhere to the other side of her room as she rubs clumsily at her eyes. “I hate him for killing so many people, f-for trying to kill us and Akira and for b-being a stupid hero and killing himself when we could’ve--” Futaba chokes on a sudden sob, pulling her blankets tighter around herself.

For once, Morgana isn’t quite sure what to say. The only sounds that fill the room are the gentle hum of Futaba’s computers and the girl herself, weeping at his side.

“When we could have saved him?” he asks quietly. Futaba turns her head so that it’s pressed against her mattress, brilliant orange hair a tangled mess all about her. Her cries are muffled against the covers and so is her reply, something that sounds mostly like a shaky _I don’t know_.

Morgana curls up beside her, resting his chin tiredly atop the plush surface of her bed.

“I thought about it too,” he admits lowly. “Akechi did some pretty bad things, but we could have saved him... We were supposed to be the heroes, but like you said, Futaba--he ended up being one too, didn’t he?” A thoughtful hum floats from his mouth, tail twitching restlessly as the thinks. “That’s why you’re angry, isn’t it? In the end, Akechi was a hero just like us.”

Futaba is silent for a moment before she responds, unearthing her face from the mattress and turning to face him, even if her gaze is focussed on some point far away.

“It sucks,” she mutters petulantly. “Akechi... He wasn’t all bad and it _sucks_.”

“It sure makes things harder,” Morgana agrees. “I guess that’s what it’s like being human, huh?” he hums. “Feeling sad and angry at the same time.”

Futaba exhales a rueful laugh, reaching out to place a light hand atop Morgana’s head. She keeps it there, absently scratching the space right behind his ear.

“I wouldn’t recommend it, Kitty. Humans waste their time thinking about the dumbest things,” she sighs. “Like if I could have forgiven him or not, if we had enough time.”

She sounds so forlorn that Morgana decides not to swat her hand away, letting her massage gentle circles against his crown.

“No one’s going to force you to decide, Futaba.”

“Yeah, I know,” she tells him, flopping over onto her back with a sigh. “I’m kinda glad I don’t have to anymore, you know?” she laughs, breath catching around a soft sniffle. The hand that was resting on Morgana’s head flies back to her face, covering teary amethyst eyes with the side of her forearm.

“Sad, angry, _and_ glad,” he hums, watching the small tremble of Futaba’s shoulders as she tries her best to hold back another wave of tears. “You must be a really strong human to feel all of that at the same time, Futaba.” Leaning over, he rubs his cheek against hers, making himself comfortable right above her shoulder. “I think you all are.”


	3. priestess | empress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> makoto and haru in the quiet, ensuing rain.

The bell atop Leblanc’s door jingles as Haru steps through, warmth flooding over her frozen cheeks with the same playful urgency as the summer tide. She props the door open against her hip, closing her umbrella and tapping it against the cement outside, shaking off as much of the icy rainwater as she can. The metal umbrella stand sways in place as she drops it in.

The cafe is mostly empty save for a familiar brunette at the counter, hovering over a book that glazed crimson eyes aren’t truly taking in. At the sound of Haru walking in, she creaks slowly back to life, thumb tracing back and forth along the rim of her cup.

“Haru, you’re here early,” Makoto says, taking a generous gulp of her coffee. It must not be hot anymore, Haru thinks, caught between wondering how Makoto could stomach a lukewarm drink like that and how long she had been waiting. “Was everything alright?”

Haru hums absently in reply, unwinding the scarf from around her neck and draping it across the back of a chair. There are spots where rain has found its way onto the tail ends, darkening the grey fabric into a murky black. She opts to keep her thick jacket on, smoothing down the soft woolen collar as she sits.

“Nothing has changed,” she voices. Makoto looks up at her, fingers curled around a cup of coffee. As she sits, Sojiro bustles past, sliding her a steaming cup as well. Haru thanks him with a wordless incline of the head. When he disappears behind the bar wall once more, Haru picks the drink up, breathing in the familiar scent of her favorite blend.

“I told him you were coming soon,” her companion interjects, crimson eyes fixed on her book. It looks like a novel of some kind, a bookmark planted neatly right between the current pages. Haru wonders if Makoto had read anything at all. “He didn’t even need me to remind him which blend was your favorite.”

She takes a careful sip, sighing in content as the gentle undertones of chocolate and wine-like acidity paint themselves across her tongue. 

“Mocha matari,” Makoto notes. A glance sideward shows Haru that crimson eyes are looking at her once again, expectant this time. Her lips are ever so slightly pursed, and Haru can tell she’s waiting for affirmation. A soft smile pulls up at her lips as she sets the cup down.

“Thank you, Mako-chan. It’s just perfect.”

The smile that forms on Makoto’s face is small and immediate.

“I figured you would need it. How was your visit?”

Haru is silent for an extended moment, chocolate brown eyes entranced by the way steam curls up from the coffee cup, dissipating lazily into the warm cafe air. Her fingers trace idly along the curved handle.

“It was strange,” Haru admits softly. “I was visiting my father’s grave, but I could only think that no one knows what happened to his killer but us.”

From the corner of her eyes, Haru can see Makoto tighten her fingers around her cup.

“It’s likely no one ever will,” Makoto agrees, but her voice audibly shakes around the words, mirroring the way her hands begin to do the exact same. 

With a sigh, Haru reaches over, placing a gentle hand against Makoto’s forearm. It’s as nonthreatening as can be, but she still jerks violently in response, tipping the remains of her coffee across the bar table. A quiet swear forces its way past clenched teeth, and even that is shaky and stuttered. Haru withdraws her hand with downcast eyes.

“S-sorry,” Makoto chokes out, grasping for a handful of napkins from the nearest container. She piles them onto the mess with quivering hands, waiting until the pristine white begins to bleed dark brown before curling her fingers deep into her palms and shoving them underneath the table. “I’m sorry,” she sighs, eyes screwed shut. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Haru doesn’t respond, instead curling her hands around her cup. It’s already cooled down considerably, just warm enough to dance just along the line of uncomfortable against the pads of her fingers. 

“Akechi-kun was my first friend,” Makoto mutters. Chocolate brown eyes lift up to look at her. Her face has relaxed, but crimson eyes still remain shut. Haru can’t help but wonder if she sees Akechi’s face behind those closed eyes. “No one my age wanted to talk to someone like me until Sis brought home this boy who was the exact kind of person I thought I was. We were  _ too  _ similar,” she laughs bitterly, “and argued about our academic achievements until Sis kicked me out so they could work.”

Chocolate brown eyes watch her from the corner of her vision. The rueful smile that had curled the corner of Makoto’s lips fades faster than it had appeared.

“He won’t even get a grave,” Makoto whispers, one hand reaching up to palm shamefully away at her eyes. “No one will know what happened to him but  _ us _ , Haru. I know he killed your father, but-- You don’t think...he deserved this, do you?”

Haru’s eyes widen, mouth falling slack.

“I--” Her breath catches violently in her throat, painfully tight around her next words. Chocolate brown eyes stare shamefully at the pile of stained napkins on the counter, blinking away the insistent stinging behind them. “Do you... Do you think I’m a monster, Mako-chan?” she asks quietly.

The panic that flashes across Makoto’s face is the exact same one that lit up her eyes when Haru had laid a hand on her arm. 

“Even for Akechi-san,” Haru begins, “what happened was cruel. Both he  _ and  _ my father met truly unfair ends.”

“I’m... sorry,” Makoto replies lamely. She sighs, reaching over to place an unsure hand over Haru’s wrist. Haru can’t tell which one of them is shaking, but the slight tremble is unmistakable. “I didn’t even stop to think about how you might feel about this, Haru,” Makoto concedes regretfully. “I can’t even imagine losing my father like this. And then losing a... a friend.”

The last word falls clumsily from her lips, like Makoto wasn’t sure what word to use, but was forced to make a quick decision regardless. Haru watches her frown at the word choice and considers the stone splash of her father’s tombstone, dark marble dotted so mercilessly by the falling rain that she could hardly make out the words written on it. She has them memorized despite that, a byproduct of spending hours poring over what to have inscribed on the unyielding marble, and wonders, in comparison, what they might have decided to write on Akechi’s.

She isn’t sure if friend is the right word for her, either.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she hums, chocolate brown eyes staring emptily into her drink. Unwinding one hand from around her cup, she brushes fingers gently across the back of Makoto’s knuckles, leading her hand away from Haru’s own and back to her lap with her best attempt at a reassuring smile. She isn’t sure if it works, but her cheeks ache at the effort and Makoto only gazes at her with crimson eyes that look much too sad. 

“I’m not the only one who’s lost someone worth grieving over,” Haru tells her. “If that someone is Akechi-san for you, then you don’t have to be strong for my sake, Mako-chan.”

“I know,” Makoto nods, followed by a gentle sniffle. Her hand reaches up to wipe at her eyes just as a tear tumbles over her bottom lashes, and Makoto palms it away against the curve of her cheek instead. “But if I’m not strong for you, Haru, then who is there left to be strong for?” she questions, a harsh blink followed by more tears, painting lines down her face that glow under the fluorescent light of Leblanc. 

Haru abandons her drink completely, turning in her seat to grab a napkin and carefully press away at the tears on Makoto’s skin.

“There’s just you, Makoto,” she murmurs gently. “And you’re allowed to be as strong or as weak as you want.”

Makoto looks up at her with crimson eyes, glossed over by tears that glow golden in the lamplight. She reaches a hand up, taking the napkin from Haru's hands to wipe away at her own eyes. 

“I can’t afford to be weak when everyone else is still going strong, Haru.”

Turning her seat back toward the bar, Haru picks up her drink again. 

“You’re not,” she says softly, fingers shifting restlessly along the smooth ceramic of her cup. It’s no longer as warm as she would have liked, but Haru takes a long sip anyway, wishing the acidic notes would taste more like Akira brewing her a drink with a lopsided grin and less like finely aged wine through tight lips at her father’s suffocating company parties.

“We’re all still grieving.”


End file.
